


you break the mountain down

by runphoebe



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom!Stiles, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, Fluff, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Praise Kink, Rimming, Top!Stiles, bottom!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:33:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1534400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runphoebe/pseuds/runphoebe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stiles is pretty sure that it’s not normal to have a sexual awakening six years into a relationship. He’s pretty sure that’s supposed to happen at the beginning and not, you know, after you already have a mortgage together.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Stiles and Derek have been together for six years when Stiles graduates from college and moves back to Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you break the mountain down

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a really simple "Derek Hale: Praise Kink & You" fic and turned into Stiles' struggle to understand what Derek needs from him now that they're finally at a place in life where they're settled and Derek's not just worried about getting Stiles through college in one piece. 
> 
> Praise Kink is my ultimate kink, but this story is more like-- Praise Lifestyle. Because if anyone deserves it, it's Derek. 
> 
> Please let me know if you see any typos or grammatical issues; this story is unbetaed and mostly written in the midnight to four am hours.
> 
>  
> 
> **ETA: Please don't post this, or any of my other works on Goodreads. I'd greatly appreciate it.**

Stiles is pretty sure that it’s not normal to have a sexual awakening six years into a relationship. He’s pretty sure that’s supposed to happen at the beginning and not, you know, after you already have a mortgage together.

That’s not to say he doesn’t enjoy it; no, he enjoys the fuck out of it. It’s no skin off his back, it makes Derek feel good and he likes making Derek feel good because, well, he’s had it pretty shitty so far and it’s well within Stiles’ control as _Derek Hale’s boyfriend_ to make things a little better.

Stiles isn’t under any illusions; it’s not like he thinks sex actually _fixes_ anything but sometimes afterwards when Derek’s still loose and pliant, his face goes slack and he sort of hums while Stiles cleans him up and he looks _happy._ Not happy-for-a-given-value, either, just straight up happy like the way Stiles feels when his father has a good physical, or when Scott sets aside a whole day and they just eat junk food and play videogames like they’re in high school again, or when Derek kisses him in public.

“Are you comfortable?” Stiles asks every time while he rubs a warm towel between Derek’s legs and massages his thighs to make sure they don’t cramp. “Do you feel okay, baby?”

Derek invariably nods and mutters a slurred, “I’m okay,” and lets his gaze go glassy and unfocused.

Stiles always makes sure he has a glass of water beside the bed before they start so he doesn’t have to leave Derek alone after, and makes Derek drink at least half of it before he lets him sleep. He talks Derek through everything he does, tells him what a good boy he is, how proud he makes Stiles, how much Stiles loves him.

Stiles feels like he’s doing okay, considering they’re learning this thing together.

\---

It’s sex, just sex, something they keep in the bedroom and it’s not even like they do it every time, since sometimes they’re tired and it’s utterly draining for both of them and sometimes Stiles just wants Derek to hold him up while they fuck slow and sleepy in the shower or he wants to blow Derek in their bed and fall asleep with his face mashed against the curve of Derek’s hip.

But mostly—well mostly Stiles wants to take care of Derek and Derek hasn’t demonstrated any particular objections to being taken care of.

They’re in bed one night, Stiles dozing on Derek’s chest while Derek thumbs through a copy of _Martha Stewart Living_ and pets Stiles’ hair distractedly.

“What do you think about this grey for the living room?” Derek asks, chest rumbling under Stiles’ cheek, and flips the magazine to show Stiles the picture he’s talking about.

“Grey’s nice. Very soothing,” Stiles says, “good for your high-strung wolfie tempers.”

Derek snorts and pulls the magazine away and all of the sudden it just _hits_ Stiles. They’re lying in their bed in the house that they picked out together and discussing what color to paint the living room and they’ve sort of got this _major thing_ going on that neither of them will acknowledge.

Stiles sits up suddenly, scrambling around to look at Derek. Derek looks back, eyebrows drawn in concern.

“Should we—we should talk about this, right?” He asks. “I mean, this seems like the kind of thing you’re supposed to talk about. I think you’re even supposed to talk about it, like, preemptively, before anything happens which means I am just the actual worst.”

He presses a hand to his forehead and tries to breathe in through his nose while Derek closes the magazine, places it deliberately on the nightstand, and pushes his glasses up on his nose. He gives Stiles no less than fifteen seconds to freak out before he even bothers to talk.

“Is this about the sex thing,” he says flatly.

“No, Derek, I’m talking about painting the fucking living room, _yes this is about the sex thing_ ,” he says all in one breath.

“Are you done?” Derek says after a minute. Stiles crosses his arms petulantly and stares at the wall. Finally, when he realizes Derek isn’t even about to indulge his insecurities, he heaves a little sigh and says, “Yes.”

“Would you like to talk about the sex thing?” Derek asks magnanimously.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever slept with,” Stiles says, diving right in.

Derek, the cocky little shit, smirks and says, “I know.”

“We’ve been together since I was _seventeen_ , Derek, and we’ve never done anything like this until, like, two months ago,” Stiles points out.

“Are you the same person you were when you were seventeen?” Derek asks. Stiles shakes his head stiltedly. “You’d never even been kissed when I met you. Your preferences don’t have to be static.”

Stiles pokes him in the side, “When did you get so wise?”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s really on your mind?” Derek suggests.

“I just—I didn’t even ask if you liked it,” Stiles says mournfully. “It just happened and then it kept happening. I didn’t even bother to make sure that you liked it.”

“Does it seem like I don’t?” Derek asks huskily, drawing Stiles onto his lap. Stiles shivers; thinks, _yeah, they’re going to be just fine_.

\---

Stiles really buckles down after their little talk. He approaches this new facet of their sex life with the same hard-headed determination and scrupulous research that he does everything else in his life.

The first thing he does is make Derek pick a safeword.

“It can be anything you want,” Stiles says encouragingly, “you’re the only one who matters here, just pick something that would be out of place in a scene, and don’t worry about having to explain it to me. If it’s private, it’s private.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Scott,” he winces.

“Hmm?” Stiles asks.

“No, Scott,” Derek repeats, “that’s—I want ‘Scott’ to be my safeword.”

“Jesus christ, baby. All of the Argents-slash-lethal plants-slash-other supernatural beings out there that want to kill you and you pick _Scott_?” Stiles says disbelievingly.  Then he lets the word roll around in his head some. “Nope, you’re right,” he concedes, “total boner killer. Fine, Scott. If you want me to stop, say ‘Scott’.”

Derek grimaces.

Next, Stiles plans a day to browse around a sex shop, see if there’s anything that he can’t live without. He asks Derek if he wants to come, but he declines which is neither a surprise nor a disappointment to Stiles. Derek doesn’t even like to look at this stuff online, so Stiles can’t imagine how he’d do out in public with actual people. He’d probably be miserable and uncomfortable the whole time and the point of this thing is to make Derek feel good.

He goes to the small shop two towns over partly for discretionary purposes (not only is he the Sheriff’s son, now he’s also a first grade teacher at Beacon Hills Elementary—if he didn’t run into one of his dad’s deputies, he’d undoubtedly see one of his kid’s parents) and partly because it’s a little classier, a little more his and Derek’s taste.

Two hours later, he comes out with a cock ring, three types of lube, plugs in various sizes, an expensive-yet-intriguing sounding kit, and a collection of silk scarves.

He clutches the bags tightly in his grip, a giddiness to his step that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

\---

At the pack meeting that night, Stiles feels an odd sense of pride listening to Derek talk to the others. He’s always had a _thing_ about being Derek Hale’s boyfriend (come on, he’s _Derek Hale’s motherfucking boyfriend_ ), but this is different. He’s Derek Hale’s boyfriend who makes Derek feel good just by telling him he’s such a good boy during sex.

The thing is, Stiles has always looked at Derek and thought, _you picked me, out of all the people in the world, you want me_ but now he looks at Derek, sees him being open and easy and laughing with Isaac and thinks, _I helped make you this way._

It’s a power-rush like Stiles can hardly believe.

\---

The bags sit untouched in Stiles’ underwear drawer until after a particularly bad pack meeting one night. Scott’s pissed because the girl he’s been seeing dumped him, so he takes it out on his pack and his pack takes it out on Derek since he may not be their alpha anymore, but he’s still the one they turn to in situations like this. Derek’s all tense muscles and frown lines by the time they get home and it kind of gets Stiles’ nerves buzzing once he realizes that it might be a _perfect_ time to try some of his new stuff.

It doesn’t take long to maneuver Derek to the bed, to strip his clothes off piece by piece and spread him out over the sheets until he’s mostly hard and well on his way to blissed out.

He runs fingers through his chest hair and peppers Derek’s face with kisses. Derek, who spent most of his adult life being touch-starved and lonely, who leans into every bit of contact Stiles will give him. Sometimes it makes Stiles’ heart hurt.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, thumbing across Derek’s cheekbone, “I wanna try something new tonight. Do you mind if we do that?”

Derek just shakes his head; he never talks much when he gets like this unless Stiles asks him to.

“Okay, you just stay right there,” Stiles says, rolling out of bed and rummaging through his underwear drawer until he finds a black silk scarf. Derek eyes it warily when Stiles hops back on the bed on his knees and crawls over to him.

“I wanted to start with something simple,” Stiles explains, “felt more natural than handcuffs. Is this okay?”

“What are you going to do with it?” Derek asks hoarsely.

“It would make me really happy if you let me tie your hands together,” Stiles says honestly, plainly.

After a beat, Derek says, “I don’t want to be tied to the bedframe.”

Stiles lets out all the air in his lungs in a sharp exhale. “That’s completely fine,” he says, “I don’t want to do anything you aren’t comfortable with. Right now I just want to tie your hands behind your back.”

“Yeah, that’s,” Derek swallows, “that’s okay.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, and slides down to kiss Derek, to encircle one of his wrists with his long fingers. “Roll over for me,” he says after a few minutes, fingertips brushing against Derek’s shoulder.

Derek complies easily, burying his face in the pillows and resting his wrists on the small of his back. Stiles takes a moment to run the scarf up the length of Derek’s arms, the curve of his spine, the swell of his ass. Lets him get accustomed to the cool, filmy fabric.

“I’m going to tie your hands together now,” Stiles says, wrapping the scarf around and through his wrists several times, “I’m going to try to make it as comfortable as possible, but you have to let me know if it doesn’t feel good. If you don’t like anything, tell me or use your safeword if you need to.”

The talking, he thinks, is grounding for both of them. Considering Stiles has talked most of his way through life so far, it helps him to talk through something that’s still relatively untested between them.

“Okay,” Derek says after Stiles’s done and he’s had a chance to flex his arms into the scarf’s hold, “it’s okay.”

“God,” Stiles says, resting back on his heels, voice shaky and reverent, “you look so fucking perfect, Derek. How does it feel?”

“Good,” Derek answers quietly, shifting his hips into the mattress. He turns his face to the side, but keeps his eyes closed, and his skin is flushed a deep, dark pink all the way down his neck. Stiles loves that flush, loves the way it creeps down Derek’s chest and back the more turned on he gets.

“Hey,” Stiles says gently. Derek looks up at him with eyes dark and heavy, mouth open, wet. “Can you lift up on your knees for me?”

Derek licks his lips, nod barely perceptible. Stiles rests his hand carefully in the middle of Derek’s back, stabilizing him with another hand to his hips when he lifts up to get his knees underneath him. He keeps his face and shoulders pressed into the pillows and arches his back, spreading his legs slightly and sticking his ass up in the air.

It’s already blushing a magnificent pink by the time Stiles sits back to admire it and Derek’s hips shift restlessly in embarrassment and arousal.

“Good boy,” Stiles praises, “it makes me so happy when you listen to me. I never have to tell you to do anything twice.”

Derek flushes darker under the compliment and he lets out a broken moan. Unable to stop himself any longer, Stiles’ hands spread Derek’s cheeks apart and expose his hole, the dusty-dark tiny little clutch of muscle.

Stiles can’t help but groan as he nuzzles his face against Derek’s ass. “Christ,” he says, “been waiting all day to eat your ass out.”

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek moans, rocking back against Stiles’ sure, steady grip.

“So good for me,” Stiles murmurs, “you can come whenever you need to, baby, but you’re not going to be able to touch yourself, so you’re going to have to come from this.” He rubs a thumb over Derek’s hole and watches it flutter ever so slightly.   

“I can,” Derek says softly, almost too soft to hear, “that’s okay, I can do that.”

“I know you can,” he says, something like pride in his voice, and then he dips his head and gets to work.

Stiles has always loved doing this, probably even more than he likes having it done to him, and Derek is nothing but a willing recipient even if it makes him blush violently when Stiles brings it up, even though he shoves into and away from Stiles’ tongue in equal measure like he’s not sure if he should be enjoying it or embarrassed that he’s enjoying it.

Stiles starts slowly, makes himself take his time with long, wet licks across Derek’s hole since he’s determined to make Derek come like this, just on his tongue and fingers. Derek’s already shaking, a light sheen of sweat over his skin by the time Stiles pushes his tongue in short, stiff little flicks. Derek whines low in his throat when Stiles stops, but he quiets when Stiles rests two slick fingertips against his hole. For a minute, Stiles does nothing but rub the tender skin until Derek is thrusting his hips back, trying to shove himself onto Stiles’ fingers.

 _Fuck_ , it’s quite a sight; Derek with his impossibly powerful arms bound and immobile, ass in the air, sweaty and shaking and desperate to get Stiles inside of him.

“That’s it, good, Derek, good boy,” Stiles murmurs, voice somehow steady in the face of something so perfect.

Carefully, he pushes his fingers inside, loosening Derek up a bit before pushing in all the way to the last knuckle. Stiles bends down to lick the skin stretched out around his fingers, then curls his fingers up until he finds Derek’s prostate. Derek’s reaction is instantaneous, back bowing, skin flushing, legs shaking underneath him, shoving himself further down on to Stiles’ hand and begging for another finger.

“Do you think you can take another?” Stiles croons, watching where his fingers glisten, sinking in and out of Derek.

“ _Yes_ , Stiles,” Derek whines, “ _please_.”

“Slow down for me, Derek,” Stiles murmurs, slipping another finger inside and thrusting sharply into Derek, brushing his prostate with every pass. “You’re getting close, aren’t you?” He asks.

Derek just moans in response, his own fingers flexing restlessly.

“I love when you come untouched. A lot of people can’t do that, but you can,” Stiles praises.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, sounding mindless, “I c—I can.”

“And you’re going to right now, aren’t you?” Stiles says, “Please, Derek, I want to see you come all spread out on my fingers like this.”

And that’s all it takes, because after three or four more thrusts, Derek heaves a strangled groan and stills, arching his back and coming hard. Stiles keeps his fingers in him until Derek tries to pull away, oversensitive.

“That’s it,” Stiles says, pulling out and rubbing soothingly between Derek’s shoulder blades as he slumps, exhausted, “that was perfect, you did such a good job, you’re such a good boy.”

Derek’s face is lax and content, hands relaxed against the restraints so Stiles doesn’t feel too bad when he says, “I really need to jack off. Do you mind if I come on you?”

“Yes, please,” Derek grunts, shifting a little but staying mostly still and keeping his eyes closed. Stiles isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he unzips his jeans hurriedly and pulls his dick out, stripping it quick and ruthless. It takes less than a minute for Stiles to come, shooting hot spurts all across Derek’s ass. He nearly just collapses on top of Derek before he remembers that Derek still needs to be taken care of.

“I’m going to untie the scarf now, okay?” He proceeds at Derek’s nod and tugs at the loose knot, unwinding the material from around his wrists. The scarf is slick enough not to have left any deep lines in Derek’s skin, but Stiles rubs his wrists and hands anyway since he knows all the blood rushing back into them must be uncomfortable. When he’s done, he maneuvers Derek so he’s lying flat on his stomach, kisses him on the forehead, then steps away to the bathroom to grab a hot, damp washcloth.

“Okay, big guy, let’s get you cleaned up,” Stiles says, hopping back onto the bed. He parts Derek’s cheeks once more, this time to clean up the saliva and lube coating him there. “Up,” he says when he’s done, tapping the back of Derek’s thigh. He grabs the towel they’d placed on top of the comforter, balls it up, and throws it in the corner along with the washcloth. “Gotta get you under the covers.”

Stiles wraps himself around Derek from behind, kissing the back of his neck and rubbing his calves with his toes.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks, “Do you need anything?”

“Perfect,” Derek breathes on the verge of sleep, “Stiles. Thank you.”

\---

The next time it happens, Stiles can’t stop talking to Derek, murmuring, “You’ve done so much for me, baby. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You make me feel so loved, I never thought I’d have that and I just want to do the same for you because I love you so much, Derek.”

Derek is nearly in tears by the time he comes, heaving huge, dry sobs that suck all of the air out of the room.

\---

“So, did we ever decide who tops?”

Stiles is flat on his back on the floor of Scott’s apartment pretty gone on a bottle of tequila and he can’t see anything but the ceiling but he’s pretty sure that was Oliver, an omega Scott and Isaac adopted in college, reigniting the whole ‘Derek vs. Stiles: who tops whom?’ debate.

“Ugh, no, not this again,” Scott groans. This makes Stiles smile. He can always count on Scott, even if the rest of the pack thinks his sex life is up for discussion.

“I don’t even know why we keep talking about this,” Ethan says. “Derek used to be an alpha, and he’s still fucking terrifying. There’s no way he lets Stilinski fuck him.”

Stiles grins a little to himself, still staring up at the ceiling.

“Seriously?” And that sounds like Danny. “I’d expect that from them, but from you?”

“He’s just calling it like he sees it,” Oliver says.

“Your societally imposed ideas about gay sex are outdated and ridiculous,” Danny adds, “they obviously fuck each other.”

“Yeah, well I bet Derek dominates the fuck out of Stiles regardless of position,” Isaac adds.

If Stiles were more sober, he’d add an affronted ‘hey’ in there somewhere, but he’s not, so he doesn’t. Besides, it’ll make a good story to take home to Derek.

“Probably,” Danny agrees.

“I know that’s right,” Oliver says.

“Ugh, I hate you guys,” Scott says, “I’m kicking you out of the pack.”

“You’re all idiots,” says Lydia. That’s a sentiment Stiles can get behind. He lifts up his head and toasts his mostly empty margarita at her. The look she gives him in return is far too knowing for comfort.

\---

See, the strange thing is that it’s not always about the sex.

Stiles had kind of thought at the beginning that it was always going to be about the sex, that Derek liked to be taken care of during sex which made a lot of sense since before Stiles, Derek had basically never been taken care of by anyone before in his life. They’re both getting off on it (it’s just the _best fucking sex_ Stiles has ever had) and they’re both getting good at it, Stiles doesn’t mind admitting, so it’s easy to see why Stiles thinks it’s just about the sex.

But then one night they’re sitting in bed again and Stiles is playing Plants vs. Zombies on his iPad and Derek is reading _Southern Living_ (seriously, _Southern Living_ , where does he get these things?) shirtless, wearing his nerd glasses, asking Stiles how he feels about a trifle for Christmas dessert. A _trifle_.

“Yeah, Der, whatever you wanna make, you know?” He says a little distractedly, trying to blow up a zombie with a potato mine.

“But do you think everyone else will like it?” Derek asks seriously, “Maybe I should just stick to fruitcake.”

“Ew, no,” Stiles says, even though he can’t help smiling at how adorably distressed Derek sounds about a holiday that’s still a month and a half away. Normal people would be stressed over Thanksgiving since it’s coming up hot, but Derek’s had that shit on lock for _weeks_.

“How about this Yule Log? Stiles?” He pokes Stiles in the ribcage, “How about this Yule Log?”

“I don’t even know what the fuck a Yule Log is, Derek,” Stiles says a little snappishly, “I’m trying to harvest these fucking suns, man.”

Stiles doesn’t even register what he’s said until a minute later when he notices that Derek’s not pressed up all warm and comforting against his back anymore. _Oh shit_ , he thinks, then nearly says it out loud. Okay, so he was an asshole to his boyfriend. It’s not the first time he’s been an asshole to his boyfriend, but that doesn’t really make him feel any better, especially when he pauses his game, rolls over, and sees Derek staring down violently at his magazine, face pinched and _very loudly_ not saying anything.

Stiles collects himself. Sighs. Decides to try something new.

“Hey, Derek,” he says cautiously. Derek grunts at him. “Would you go get me a glass of water? I’m a little thirsty and I don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night with dry-mouth.”

Derek throws him a look like, _fucking really_? But Stiles doesn’t back down, keeps looking at him imploringly and patiently until Derek finally gets out of bed with a disbelieving huff and stalks out of the room. While he’s gone, Stiles puts away his iPad and phone, opens Derek’s magazine to the page with the Yule Log, and fluffs the pillows a few times. He’s just finishing up when Derek comes back with a glass of ice water. Stiles takes a long sip of it before patting the bed next to him.

“Thank you so much, baby, I needed that,” Stiles says. It might be his imagination, but he’s pretty sure he sees Derek relax a little. Stiles picks up the magazine, “Is this the Yule Log you were talking about before?”

Derek nods suspiciously, still standing at the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry I was impatient with you, I shouldn’t have been so wrapped up in my game,” Stiles says.

“It’s fine,” Derek says grudgingly.

“Why don’t you come show me what you were thinking about for Christmas, and I can tell you what sounds good and what doesn’t?”

Derek doesn’t stop eyeing him warily, but he does crawl back into bed next to Stiles, rests his head on Stiles’ thigh, and spends the next forty-five minutes explaining why he’s just not even going to _try_ making a soufflé with Scott and Isaac in the house. Eventually, he gets droopy-eyed and Stiles has to take the magazine from him to put it on the bedside table.

Stiles turns off the light, beyond pleased that he diffused a fight with barely any hurt feelings. He and Derek don’t fight often but when they do it burns bright and fizzles fast and leaves wounds that are slow to heal. Stiles knows this fight had essentially no lasting damage—will probably be forgotten by morning.

“Sleep tight, baby boy,” Stiles murmurs against his temple, and Derek rumbles happily beneath him.

\---

For literally the first time in his whole life, Stiles is the only one of his friends in a long-term, soul mates kind of relationship. He’s not sure how it happened but _every single person he knows_ is single, which apparently makes Stiles and Derek even more unbearable than they normally are.

One day, he shows up at the station with a sack of muffins and coffee for Derek. It’s a Monday, but Stiles has the whole week off school because of Thanksgiving, so he can’t think of a better way to spend the day than bringing his favorite hot deputy some treats.

“Scott and Isaac kicked me out,” he says sadly, scuffing his foot against Derek’s desk, “Said I was too happy.”

“I thought Scott only dated that girl for two months,” Derek says, pulling out the banana muffin and carefully dividing the top from the bottom. He sets the top aside, saving it for later. “Why is he so torn up?”

“Well, yeah, but it’s Scott, you know,” Stiles says, chomping into his own cranberry muffin without Derek’s precision. “Every girl’s _the girl_.”

Derek brushes Stiles’ muffin spray off his deputy uniform and hums thoughtfully.

“Thank god I already found my man, you feel me?” He kicks Derek’s foot under the desk.

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m at work, Stiles,” he says, “your dad can literally see us through his office.”

Stiles looks over and, yep, his father can see them. His father is half-heartedly glaring at them, actually.

“He’ll feel better when he figures out I brought him a muffin, too,” Stiles says confidently.

“Yeah, but he’ll feel pissed when he realizes it’s a _bran_ muffin.” He says ‘bran’ with almost as much derision as the Sheriff usually does.

“Have you two been _practicing_?” Stiles asks, giggling when Derek looks at him flatly.

“Stiles,” his dad comes barging out of his office, “don’t you have anything better to do than distract my deputy on your day off?”

“Look, dad, I brought you a muffin!” Stiles thrusts the bag into his hands. His dad pulls out the last remaining muffin, holds it between his thumb and forefinger and eyes it warily.

“It’s _bran_ ,” he mutters, sounding like a carbon-copy of Derek. Stiles cackles gleefully while Derek shoots him the most obnoxiously self-satisfied look Stiles has ever seen.

\---

The days leading up to Thanksgiving, Stiles paints their living room the grey color that Derek found in _Martha Stewart Living_ and doesn’t get laid _at all._ Derek is up all hours making stuffing, sweet potato casserole, three different types of cranberry sauce (“Not everybody likes the whole cranberries, Stiles, _god_ ,” Derek says when Stiles asks about it), mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, so many fucking rolls that the house is probably going to smell like yeast for days.

After he buys a freshly slaughtered turkey from a local farm, Derek opens the fridge every thirty minutes just to look at it. Seriously, he just looks at it. Makes more meaningful eyes at it than he ever does at Stiles.

On Wednesday, Derek makes _six different kinds of pie_ and doesn’t let Stiles try any of them.

“You can have them tomorrow,” Derek sniffs, whisking away the pumpkin pie when he catches Stiles poking around.

“Der _ek_ ,” he whines.

His dad comes over early Thursday morning to help, which means that he flips the TV over to pregame stuff on CBS and drinks whiskey out of a coffee cup like he thinks he’s actually fooling Stiles. Melissa comes over about an hour later, follows Derek around and picks up after him, puts out the minor fire he starts when he throws a dishtowel over an open flame on their stove.

Everyone else straggles in slowly, Cora and Lydia, then Oliver, then Kira, then Isaac and Ethan and Danny, Scott and Mr. Argent.

It’s going great, it’s going so smoothly that Stiles thinks Derek’s been freaking out over nothing, when Derek realizes that someone’s accidentally turned the oven off and promptly throws the biggest hissy fit Stiles has ever seen. Luckily, everyone’s pretty drunk and yelling at the football game so they don’t particularly care, but he does catch Lydia lifting a massively unimpressed eyebrow at Derek when he stomps his foot on the ground like a five-year-old.

“Okay,” Stiles says, flinging himself on the couch and marching to the dining room table where Derek looks like he’s about to head up a serious interrogation until the guilty party fesses up. He grabs Derek by the shirtsleeve and drags him to the bedroom. “Let’s go.”

“ _Stiles,_ ” Derek whines, “Stiles, I have to turn the oven back on, the turkey is in there.”

“Yeah, pretty sure the whole neighborhood heard that, Der,” Stiles says, “Let’s just assume one of ‘em’s got enough self-preservation instincts to turn it on for you, okay?”

Derek crosses his arms and looks at Stiles’ forehead.

“Derek,” Stiles says, cupping his cheek, powering through even when Derek flinches, “you have to calm down. It’s not Thanksgiving if something doesn’t go wrong.”

“Thanksgiving’s _ruined_ ,” Derek says miserably. Stiles sits on the edge of the bed, pushes on Derek’s shoulder so he’ll follow, but instead Derek drops to his knees on the floor. Rests his head on Stiles’ thigh.

Okay, that’s—okay. Stiles can handle this. He works his fingers through Derek’s hair and scritches his scalp until he relaxes a little, sagging against Stiles’ leg.

“Nobody has thanked you enough for pulling this together, have they?” Stiles murmurs. He has to be quiet since they’ve got a houseful of nosy werewolves just a few rooms away. “They don’t realize how much work you’ve put into this, but you’ve got a lot of people out there who’d be spending Thanksgiving alone with their microwave turkey dinners if not for you.”

Derek grumbles, like he agrees that the rest of the pack needs to be more fucking grateful.

“This is a good thing that you’re doing, okay?” Stiles reassures him, “You’ve done such a good job making this a nice holiday for everyone and we’re not going to let them ruin that just because they’re a bunch of lonely grumps, right?”

Derek, who’s been a lonely grump for a lot of his life, grudgingly says, “I guess not.”

“Good boy,” Stiles says, just to see Derek melt a little, “Now, why don’t you come out and sit on the couch and I’ll pour you a drink. We’ll let Melissa handle the food for a bit and when the turkey’s done, you can carve it.”

“No, I don’t want Melissa to—,”

“Derek,” Stiles says softly, commandingly. He deflates again, and Stiles helps him to his feet.

He heaves a long-suffering sigh in Stiles’ general direction.

“Hey,” Stiles pulls him in by his belt loop, puts his mouth right against Derek’s ear, “If you can just do what I’m asking for the rest of the day, I’ll blindfold you and fuck you till you’re crying tonight.”

“Shit,” Derek says, “Ugh. Fine,” and marches back to the kitchen.

\---

Derek makes the Yule Log for Christmas.

Stiles spends three days straight making crude jokes about eating Derek’s Yule Log, then he actually sneaks a bite and spends three days straight apologizing to Derek before he lets him have a full slice.

\---

Stiles is already in bed when Derek’s shift ends, curled up in a mound of blankets and scrolling through the dark, scary parts of reddit on his phone when the door clicks open and Derek walks in. Starts shedding his uniform silently and pulling on a pair of soft flannel sleep pants.

“Hi,” Stiles says, sleepy and happy, tossing his phone on the bedside table. He holds his arms out imploringly, making grabby-hands at Derek until he takes two, three steps forward and situates himself in Stiles’ hold. His bare chest is warm against Stiles’ skin. He leans back until he can see Derek’s face, the delicate shadow of eyelashes across his cheek and the pout of his lips, the soft stubble. “Hi,” he says again.

“Hi,” Derek says, quiet voice echoing in the still air. Stiles buries his fingers in the short hairs at the back of Derek’s head.

“You look so pretty,” Stiles says before he can stop himself. Derek flushes, buries his hot face against Stiles’ neck. Mouths at the thin skin of Stiles’ throat and sucks gently, like it’s more for comfort rather than to mark him. “Missed you so much today.”

“I missed you, too,” Derek says, breath whooshing just under Stiles’ ear. He slips one big hand under Stiles’ shirt, cupping his belly and scraping against fine smattering of hair. Stiles feels himself start to harden, rolls his hips in tight little circles, seeking friction. He pulls Derek the rest of the way on top of him, arranging them until he can thrust up against Derek’s flannel-covered dick, make Derek groan and thrust back.

“I want you to fuck me,” Stiles gasps, “please. You make me feel so good when you fuck me.”

“Yes, anything,” Derek says, gripping Stiles’ hips with his long fingers, pressing bruises into his pale skin, “anything.”

“Holy god, you’re so incredible,” Stiles murmurs while Derek slides his shirt up and kisses his belly worshipfully, “you give me everything I need.”

Derek nearly whines at that, pushes fruitlessly at Stiles’ t-shirt until it gets caught around his armpits and Stiles has to pull it the rest of the way off, then tugs off the baggy sweatpants Stiles is wearing. Nuzzles his face against Stiles cock and balls, then dips lower to flick his tongue over his hole.

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles says, shifting into the hot, wet pressure, “yeah, good boy, get me wet.” He growls and pushes Stiles’ legs up around his chest, lapping over Stiles’ hole, messy and sloppy and so good.

“Fingers, baby, give me your fingers,” Stiles says after a few moments, opening his legs up even wider and watching raptly as Derek fumbles for the lube and slicks up his hand. He starts with one, pressing all the way inside and brushing fast against Stiles’ prostate, making pleasure curl all the way down to his toes. “Slow, Derek, go nice and slow for me, that’s it. That feels perfect.”

And it’s more of a challenge than Stiles thought it would be, talking Derek through this while he feels like he’s about to come apart, but Derek listens, slows down even as he pushes another finger inside Stiles, stretching him carefully.

“God, it’s been so long,” Stiles says, looks down at Derek whose face is drawn tight, like he’s afraid to shatter the moment. “I feel so full already.”

Derek licks his lips, staring down where his fingers are sinking in and out of Stiles, slides another finger inside him and spreads them until Stiles is arching his back and keening. Derek’s so hard that it must be painful and suddenly Stiles _wants that_ inside of him like five minutes ago.

“So fucking good,” Stiles pants, “know exactly how to touch me, c’mon, Derek, fuck me, promise I’m ready.”

Derek leans down and suckles the stretched open skin around Stiles’ hole, flicking inside with his tongue and groaning when Stiles shoves himself further onto his fingers.

“Please,” Stiles moans, squeezing the base of his dick to keep from coming.

“Yes,” he hears Derek say distantly, “okay.” Cries when Derek pulls his fingers out, a low noise that goes high and tight when he feels the head of Derek’s dick tugging against his rim, pushing inside of him so slowly that Stiles can’t bear it. When he’s clearheaded enough to think, he realizes that the broken whine he hears is coming from Derek and that Derek looks like he’s about to fall apart on top of him.

“Okay, all right, you’re okay, Derek,” Stiles says, gasping, “I’ve got you, you’re okay.”

It’s the strangest, easiest sex they’ve ever had; Derek leaning over him and panting warm breath into his neck, fucking into Stiles with long, deep thrusts that light his nerve-endings on fire.

“You’re crying,” Derek murmurs, brushing his lips against the damp tracks trickling down Stiles’ cheeks. Stiles blinks and realizes that Derek’s right.

“You just make me feel good,” he says, voice watery. Cants his hips up to meet Derek’s thrusts, which are growing harder and more uneven by the second.

“Yeah, wanna make you come,” Derek grunts. Slips in a finger next to his cock and Stiles nearly arches off the bed, gripping his fingers so hard into Derek’s shoulders that it hurts. The air around him is so still and quiet and heavy with his panting breaths, with the heat emanating from Derek’s skin and the way their sweat slips together and evaporates and Stiles can hardly ground his own body. Just feels like he’s floating.

“Just, that,” Stiles stutters, “yeah, that’s, ‘m close, wanna feel you in me.” He’s nearly sobbing when he pleads, “Derek, baby, please. Need to feel it inside me.”

“Fuck, fuck,” Derek hisses, lifting Stiles’ hips in the air and pounding into him ruthlessly, spreading Stiles’ legs wide and splitting him open on his cock. He can feel it when Derek starts to come, the hot spurt of semen inside him triggering his own orgasm and he clenches hard around Derek’s dick, blowing his load onto his stomach, Derek’s chest.

“Christ,” he says, when they’re both capable of movement again. Derek just grunts and pulls out of him. Stiles has always loved this part, feeling the hot trickle of come leak out of him once Derek’s not plugging him up anymore. He shudders when Derek swipes a finger through the come on his stomach, brings it to his mouth. Silently, he pushes Derek’s shoulder until he tips to the side, loose and compliant, head against the pillows and body sated and happy. Stiles slides down until they’re eye-level and runs a reverent hand over the side of his face.

“You’re so amazing,” he says, wishing he could say it over and over because it’s the only thing he knows right now, “you did such a good job, I love you so much.”

“Love you,” Derek mumbles, sex-drunk and sleepy against Stiles’ skin.

“So pretty,” Stiles says again, “So amazing. I wish you could see it, Derek. I wish I knew what I did to deserve you.”

\---

One night, Stiles has everyone over to drink beer and watch the playoffs since they’ve been banned from the place for the last week while Stiles and Derek installed new cherry wood floors. It’s coming up on the full moon so everyone’s running a little tense, but Scott’s found a new girl so he’s happy, Cora and Isaac are apparently fucking again so they’re happy (Derek is _not happy_ ), and Oliver seems content to moon over Lydia from afar (Stiles can sympathize. He knows that feeling).

It doesn’t matter that the full moon’s just days away, the pack is more settled than they’ve been in a long time.

For the most part, everyone’s sprawled across the plush couch and armchairs in their living room with the flat screen TV turned all the way up, except for Derek, who’s sequestered himself away in the kitchen reading a book about gardening in Northern California that Stiles’ father had gotten him for Christmas.

“Learning anything useful?” Stiles asks, hip checking him on his way to the fridge for another beer.

“Reading about vegetable gardens,” Derek answers, “I think I’m gonna be able to plant one this year.”

He looks so earnestly excited, glasses slipping down his nose and hair soft and loose. Stiles can’t help but put his beer on the counter and kiss him senseless.

“That would be awesome,” he pulls back and adjusts Derek’s glasses, “you can make me dinner with food that you grow.”

“Well, I might not even be able to grow anything good this year,” Derek says demurely, blushing, “It takes practice.”

“I’ll eat whatever you grow,” Stiles promises, “even if it’s one shitty little carrot. Even if it’s a tiny potato. Or an onion.”

“Stop being so fuckin’ domestic and come watch this game,” Isaac calls.

“Nah, Derek’s gotta learn how to garden,” Oliver says, snorting with laughter, “gotta keep Stiles happy so he doesn’t throw him out for a newer model.”

This makes Stiles go tense and he can feel Derek pull away from him, the calm contentment slipping away.

“Shuddup, Stiles would never do that, Derek’s a very good housewife. Keeps ‘im happy, if you know what I mean,” slurs Ethan, who is quite possibly the very furthest thing from an expert on the inner workings of Stiles and Derek’s romantic life.

“Ew, all of you shut up,” Cora contributes, “that’s my brother.”

“Hear, hear,” Stiles says, feeling a little sick to his stomach. He chances a glances at Derek, who actually looks even worse than Stiles feels, if that’s possible.

“Hey,” he says, tugging on Derek’s shirt, “you don’t think I actually listen to those dickwads, right?”

Derek doesn’t answer. Instead, his eyes flash a little and when Stiles checks, he sees that his claws are poking holes in his jeans because, fuck, the full moon is two days away and his moron friends have basically found the most efficient way to get under Derek’s skin. He hears laughter floating in from the living room, hears his and Derek’s names tossed around a few more time, and sees Derek flush a violent red like he’s wolfing out more due to embarrassment than anger.

Okay, that’s—Stiles can fix this. He can diffuse it. It’s like he’s got this formerly untapped well of power just sitting at his disposal and all he has to do is cup a firm hand around the back of Derek’s neck and _squeeze_.

“I know they’re being unbelievable assholes, Derek,” Stiles murmurs, “But you have to behave for me, okay?”

Derek's breathing is harsh and his eyes keep fluctuating between green and blue and Stiles thinks, _no fucking way am I'm going to let these dumbass werewolves have it out on my new wood floor_.

“Derek,” he says, a little harder but still soothing, calming, “just breathe. I need you to calm down.”

Distantly, he hears laughter erupt from the living room but he can tell it's directed at something on the TV; no one's paying attention to the tableau in the kitchen and Stiles wouldn't care anyway. This is between him and Derek.

He tightens his hold on Derek's neck.

“Derek,” he repeats, “listen to me. Just listen.”

Stiles breathes in and out, slowly, deeply, and soon enough Derek starts to mimic him, sagging a little, deflating against Stiles.

“Sorry,” he says miserably, “I shouldn’t—I don’t know where that came from.”

“I do,” Stiles says, “all of our friends are dicks.” He thinks of all of the panic attacks he’s had that Derek’s talked him down from, all the questions Derek’s never asked and thinks he can respect him enough not to question Derek’s own quirks.

“I've been telling you that for years,” Derek says with a tentative half-smile. Stiles kisses the side of his mouth.

“Keep reading your book,” Stiles says, patting his head obligingly, “don't let the haters get you down, Der.”

Derek rolls his eyes, but flips his book back to where it was. “Everything you say is ridiculous.”

“I'm ridiculous?” Stiles says incredulously, “You're reading a book about gardening!”

“I'm cultivating a useful life skill,” Derek says imperiously.

“You'll be the only one prepared for an apocalypse,” Stiles agrees, “okay, back to it. Those tomatoes aren't gonna grow themselves.”

When Stiles gets back to the living room, he methodically goes around and smacks everyone except Lydia across the back of the head.

“Stiles!” Scott whines, rubbing his scalp.

“No,” Stiles barks. They all fall silent. “You all owe Derek an apology and some sort of baked good like a scone. He likes pumpkin and banana nut.”

“I didn't even say anything,” Scott says grumpily.

“And you didn't rush to his defense either, did you?”

“No,” Scott says sullenly when Stiles stares him down. It’s actually sort of adorable, the way he hangs his head and sighs sadly.

“Bad werewolves,” Stiles chastises, pleased when they all look properly ashamed of themselves.

\---

“You’re not as subtle as you think, you know,” Lydia says one day while they’re at the grocery store picking out cereal. She hums contemplatively and grabs a box of Honey Bunches of Oats, checking the nutritional contents.

Stiles drops his box of Cocoa Puffs (Derek’s favorite) and chokes on absolutely nothing. “Ah. Uhum. Hmm,” he says intelligently, bending over to pick up the box.

“You and Derek,” she continues, strolling down the aisle and comparing several different brands of instant oatmeal, “I figured it out months ago.”

Stiles manages to fumble a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch into the cart even through his absolute blood-curdling mortification. “How about Cheerios? What does Isaac like? Does he like Cheerios?” Stiles says loudly, earning him some strange looks.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Lydia says patiently, “it’s perfectly normal. And Isaac doesn’t like Cheerios, he likes Frosted Flakes.”

Stiles puts away the Cheerios and grabs a box of Frosted Flakes. There; ten boxes of cereal should keep six hungry werewolves satisfied for two days.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Stiles says pointedly.

“The back of your neck is bright red,” Lydia observes. Stiles’ hand shoots up to cover it. “So Derek likes to be babied. That should come as a surprise to, oh, absolutely no one.”

Stiles starts coughing—like, straight up hacking up his lungs in the middle of the bread aisle where he’s trying to decide between seeded and unseeded rye. Stiles and Cora prefer it with seeds. Oliver likes it without. The seeds make Derek sneeze, but it’s completely adorable so Stiles isn’t really sure who that point is for or against.

“Derek? Babied? I have—I don’t,” he stutters.

“It makes sense,” she says, “for god’s sake, get the unseeded. Less mess.”

“It _does_?” Stiles asks. He’s directly acknowledging the topic of conversation for the first time, which he thinks is a very big, mature step. “I mean, _I_ know it does, but you think so, too?”

“Honey, Derek might like to pretend he’s mysterious but he is _not_ that hard to read,” Lydia says pityingly.

“O-okay, but I mean, _babied_?” He repeats. After all, he’s never really thought of it that way. Mostly he’s thought of it as Derek needing someone to repeatedly demonstrate how amazing he is because he’ll never believe it on his own.

“Coddled, taken care of, whatever you want to call it, Stiles,” she waves her hand around pointlessly, leading him over to the peanut butter.

“I call it ‘Derek Hale needs some serious lovin’ because I’m the only person he’s dated who’s not a serial killer’,” Stiles says a little dramatically, motioning so violently that he knocks down an entire shelf of peanut butter. Lydia does not help him pick up a single jar; watches disdainfully while he does it singlehandedly and then says,

“Exactly. He’s probably spent the better part of six years waiting for the other shoe to drop, thinking he doesn’t deserve you. When you treat him like that, like he’s the only thing that matters, it probably makes him feel safe. How often in his life do you think Derek’s actually felt safe before?”

“Approximately never,” Stiles answers, tossing a jar of Nutella into the cart.

“See?” She says generously, patting him on the shoulder and putting the Nutella back on the shelf, “You’re getting it.”

\---

Stiles’ last teaching observation happens on a Monday because somebody hates him and _of course_ it happens on a damn Monday. He texts Derek two words, _SOS_ _tequila_ , during lunch in hopes that Derek will understand and will have a nice big margarita waiting for him when he gets off and maybe some hint-of-lime chips and the really spicy queso that Derek makes from scratch.

When he finally trudges up the walk to their front door, Derek’s waiting outside with a gigantic frosty-cold margarita, wearing his deputy uniform.

“You look like every single one of my high school wet dreams,” Stiles says, snatching the margarita and taking a huge sip. It’s perfect; there’s even salt on the rim and a lime wedge tilted jauntily on the side.

“Enchiladas are in the oven,” Derek says, ducking his head so Stiles won’t see his blush but joke’s on him because Stiles can totally see the way it creeps around the back of his neck. “There’s queso.”

“Jesus. Now just take your pants off really slowly and tell me you’re going to blow me while I eat,” Stiles says, obediently following Derek to the queso. He takes the whole bowl and a bag of chips and collapses on the couch, nursing his drink diligently. Derek sits down next to him and works his hands into Stiles’ hair, rubbing gently until he’s shivering with how good it is. 

“Wanna explain the sudden demand for tequila?” Derek says finally, scritching Stiles’ scalp with his fingernails.

“Last observation today,” Stiles sighs.

“How’d it go?” Derek asks softly, taking the drink from Stiles’ hand and letting him press his face drowsily into Derek’s shoulder.

“Good,” Stiles says, “great, actually. Lady was like, a hundred and ten years old and kept glaring at me the whole time. I thought she hated me until she came up at the end of the day and said how impressed she was.”

“Of course she was,” Derek says simply, “you’re the best.”

Stiles grins into the scratchy fabric of his uniform shirt. “Nuh uh,” he says bashfully, “you have to say that because you _love_ me.”

“I do love you,” Derek says, chest all hard and rumbly against Stiles.

“Enough to feed me chips?” Stiles asks.

“Enough to take my clothes off really slowly and blow you on the couch,” Derek answers, fingers tracing a firm path up and down Stiles’ spine, cupping hotly at the small of his back. He feels floaty from the half-margarita, drowsy from Derek’s steady touch, the heat of his skin.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers, swallowing, “yeah, that would be.”

He stops, letting Derek undress himself first, letting Derek lay him out across the cushions, letting him take Stiles’ clothes off piece by piece and kiss every inch of exposed skin until Stiles is naked and hard and grinding mindlessly into the air. It feels like a lifetime since they’ve done anything like this but it’s completely natural, like muscle memory telling Stiles to relax, to let Derek take care of him.

Derek cradles Stiles’ leg, kisses the arch of his foot and suck a mark into the thin skin of his ankle. He bites down on the tendons in the bend of Stiles’ knee, making Stiles jerk and giggle breathlessly. He licks the jut of Stiles’ hipbones, rubs his face against Stiles’ belly, and utterly dotes on Stiles’ nipples, tonguing them until Stiles is quivering.

By the time he gets Stiles’ dick in his mouth, he lasts an embarrassingly short amount of time before he’s tugging at Derek’s hair, moaning and coming hard down Derek’s throat. Derek drags himself up, slots his dick in the join of Stiles’ hip and thrusts until he finishes on Stiles’ stomach. Collapses on top of him, careless of the mess.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, feeling embarrassingly shaky. Overwhelmed with emotion and leaking said emotion all over the curve of Derek’s shoulder. “Derek,” he says helplessly.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Derek murmurs, stroking his sweaty hair, “you’re okay.”

Stiles blinks against his tears, squeezing his eyes shut tight. He wonders if this is how Derek feels all the time, how he can _stand_ it, being taken apart like this.

Derek lays across him for an hour at least, mouthing lazily at Stiles’ neck and leaving careful bruises along his collarbone, cradling his face and dropping kisses all over his forehead. He lets Stiles float, lets him go out of his mind and whispers softly to him any time he gets restless.

Stiles is hardly conscious by the time Derek pries himself from the couch to check on their food. Slips away into sleep before he can even register that Derek’s gone.

\---

They eat their enchiladas sitting cross-legged on the living room floor with _South Park_ going in the background. Everything around them feels easy and practiced and content and Stiles keeps nudging Derek’s calves with his toes and Derek tries to hide his smile but it doesn’t really work at all.

“This is really good, baby,” Stiles says around a mouthful of food, “thanks for correctly interpreting my useless text. Guess that skill just sorta happens after six years, huh?”

“I know you pretty well,” Derek concedes, flushing a little. He frowns down at his plate, which he’s been doing for the past five minutes but Stiles doesn’t pressure him. He’s decided that Derek will say what he wants when Derek is ready to say what he wants.

“Hey,” he says finally, “Stiles.”

“Hey, Derek,” Stiles says brightly.

“Hey, you know it’s okay to like both things, right?” He asks, a concerned line creasing his forehead. “I mean, what we did today and what we—you know, the other stuff we do.”

“I know,” Stiles says softly, even though there’s something nagging at the back of his mind.  

“Good, cause I like, um, the stuff we do,” Derek says, scratching the back of his neck, “but I like taking care of you, too.”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say because he’s so afraid that if he gets a single word wrong, he’ll shatter this delicate little foundation they’ve created.

“I mean it, Stiles,” Derek says urgently when Stiles stays silent, “It’s not like you being in control gets me off. It’s you. Just being with you. I need you to let me take care of you.”  

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles agrees hoarsely. Forces himself to inhale when it feels like there’s no air left in the room.

\---

Okay, so it’s not just about sex. In fact, it just happens to occasionally coincide with sex.

Stiles recognizes that the two aren’t necessarily as inseparable as he’d once thought; they’re more—tangential, existing in the same plane but divergent. He thinks he’s growing as a person. Or maybe the emphasis should be: he _thinks_ he’s growing as a person (but he really needs to consult Lydia to make sure).

“Lydia,” he says stiffly. They’re sitting outside at a little café because it’s March now, warm enough to be comfortable and to not have to worry about as many nosy diners as they’d have to inside. Stiles is wearing a button up and blazer and Lydia keeps checking her lipstick in her compact. “Look, the only reason we’re even talking about this is because you already figured it out with your freaky intuition bullshit, so don’t get any ideas.”

“You do know I don’t actually care about your sex life, right?” She asks, squinting.

“That’s the problem!” He says a little too excitedly, nearly knocks over Lydia’s wine glass. She is not amused.

“The problem is that I don’t care about your sex life,” she says flatly.

“No,” Stiles says, “the problem is that I’m not completely sure it’s my sex life.”

Lydia stares at him for a long minute. She drains her glass of wine and says, “Honestly, Stiles, I need to be working on my dissertation. I don’t have time for,” she waves her hand around, “whatever this is. Your sexual crisis.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say,” he huffs, “I’m pretty sure it’s not my sexual crisis. I think it’s just my—life. A life crisis.”

“A life crisis?” Lydia raises one perfect, judgmental eyebrow. Like, it actually looks like it’s been tweezed to attain that level of judgment. Stiles sighs. He can no longer think of a single justification for bringing this problem up with Lydia.

“The, uh, well, the praise thing. Hmm. The, you know, the, jesus christ,” he stumbles and takes a breath, “the coddling. That stuff. I don’t think it’s just a sex thing.”

“It’s something you engage in outside of the bedroom?” Lydia prompts, helping him along.

“Exactly! Sometimes I, well, I guess I sort of—calm him down when he gets all anxious?” Stiles says, “And then the other day we had sex without bringing it up at all.”

Stiles feels all fidgety; hot around the collar. It’s probably because he knows how utterly mortified Derek would be if he knew Stiles talked to _Lydia_ about things like this. He can just imagine Derek moping like a five year old, unable to show up to pack meeting for at least a week and pointedly ignoring Stiles for even longer. Stiles gulps. Yeah, it’s probably best that he and Lydia take a blood oath to never divulge this conversation under pain of death. Just to be on the safe side.

“I don’t know why you’re acting like this a _thing_ ,” Lydia says, “we just talked about it in the grocery store a few weeks ago.”

“Yeah, but I thought it was just a sex thing,” Stiles says emphatically, eyeing the table of people a few feet away from them. They either can’t hear or are wisely choosing not to.

“Stiles, you are an adult. You have a job with actual health insurance and a mortgage and you need to accept that fact that your boyfriend has had a really fucked up life and you’ve got a lot of shitty years to make up for,” Lydia snaps. Loudly. She could not care less what the table full of people near them thinks. “Sometimes that means he needs to be praised during sex, or that he needs to be praised while he’s washing the dishes or cooking dinner or fighting with the actual most useless werewolves ever to exist.”

“That makes sense. I think it,” Stiles starts, “I think it, I mean, I have no idea what I’m talking about here, but I think it sort of—centers him? It’s not like submission, I’m pretty sure, I just sort of tell him what to do and then compliment him when he does it.”

“He gets off on behaving for you,” Lydia says, “sexually and emotionally. It’s nothing groundbreaking, Stiles, you’re not the first people to do this.”

Stiles soaks up the condensation on his water glass with his straw wrapper, contemplating.

“Ugh, just spit it out, Stilinski. You have ten minutes before I leave you with the check and go back to the library.”

“I guess I just feel a little guilty, maybe?” Stiles spits out. Lydia stares at him with raised eyebrows, willing him to continue. “Because we had sex the other day and it was like before, like when I was in college and it felt so good and then I felt really bad because that’s not what Derek wants anymore.”

“How can you know that?” Lydia asks, “If Derek wants to be a good boy for you—do _not_ roll your eyes at me, we aren’t in high school—if that’s what he wants then taking care of you sexually probably feels good for him, too.”

That’s—well, it’s rather eloquently put, Stiles thinks, and sort of ridiculous that Lydia’s able to parse out the intricacies of his relationship in a matter of minutes when it’s something that he’s been losing sleep over for _months._ It’s eloquent and it’s simple and very Lydia Martin and it makes Stiles _happy_.

“Huh,” he says, mouth open.

Lydia squints at him over her cell phone. “Nicely put.”

\---

Summer comes in hard and hot and more often than not Stiles finds himself watching Derek do his _shirtless gardening_ thing out in the backyard. He reads, sometimes, dozes off even more and has vivid, sweaty dreams about Derek, sex, about sex with Derek ten years from now, or fifteen, about the way Derek’s hair is going to go grey at his temples. He dreams in shocking, bright color about Derek’s shy smile, the way he wiggles his toes when he’s happy, how he cradles Stiles to his chest and rocks him gently when Stiles gets stuck too deep inside his own head.

He wakes, rouses himself from the strange lucidity of his dreams and studies Derek. Derek, who looks like he’s having an actual conversation with his tomato plants, who’d pick spending his afternoon elbow deep in mulch over anything else in the world. He’s come face to face with Stiles’ demons, stood witness to their creation and still kisses him so sweetly that it shatters Stiles over and over, makes him new and ready and stronger, even, where Derek occupies all of the little broken spaces inside of him.

Derek, who waited six years for Stiles to figure him out, indulging the teenage relationship that Stiles needed, the easy banter and constant bickering, until Stiles could comprehend the sort of affection that Derek needs and Stiles doesn’t deserve him, Stiles spent nearly a year thinking it was all about _sex_ , _jesus christ._

Stiles rolls himself out of the patio couch, thick and heavy with humidity and the clinging tendrils of sleep, stumbles over to Derek, who trades the bag of mulch he’s carrying for an armful of Stiles.

“Hey, baby,” Derek says, soft, while Stiles clings to him, says it like there’s nobody else in the world that matters, “You awake?”

Stiles mutters and drowses some against Derek’s shoulder, drifting in the easy, sure grip of Derek’s arms. “The sun. Makes me,” he yawns, huge, right in Derek’s face, “makes me sleepy.”     

“You should get in bed,” Derek suggests quietly, rubbing circles on his back, “I can join you in a bit, get cleaned up—,”

“Derek, I love you,” Stiles interrupts, feels it ripping at his seams until he can’t take it anymore. Stiles has said it a thousand times, tens of thousands of times and meant it every time but never like the way he does now.

Derek stops, breath catching like he knows this is something different. “I know,” he says softly, “I know you do.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t understand before,” Stiles says, hushed and desperate, “I don’t know why I thought it was just about sex. Thank you for being patient with me.”

“It’s okay,” Derek is saying, “Stiles, baby, it’s okay.”

Stiles says, “I know, I know it is.”

Says, “You’ve been so perfect for me this whole time, you—you’re amazing.”

Says, “I’m going to get things right this time, promise.”

Says, “We’re going to be so good, Derek, I can’t even _wait_.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just want you to know that it took everything I had to leave in the line about Scott being a total boner killer. McHaleinski 4 life.
> 
> Also, [tumblr](http://runphoebe.tumblr.com) if you are interested, though I have to warn you, I am brand new to this tumblr thing and will probably fuck it up a LOT before I get used to it.


End file.
